Played: “Sometimes you never know who is playing who, until the damage is done." (4 page)

“Like the street party, top cop,” Joshua says, almost as if making small talk to a friendly neighbor.

Cools doesn’t answer, only glances around to make sure no one is within earshot, then positions himself up close, locking eyes with a cold stare that would strike fear in most men, but has little noticeable effect on Joshua. “I have to let you go for now, but first…I do not like you—you sick fuck!” Next he breaks his eye contact to guide Joshua’s attention to the gun he’s holding; he moves it side to side and says, “These things accidentally go off sometimes, punk. It’s rare, but it happens. Next time…next fucking time!”

Joshua’s relaxed grin is his only reply. Outwardly he appears to be nothing more than an adult delinquent; though on the inside, he’s strategically laughing his ass off, picturing it all: a courtroom, a jury, a HD home surveillance clip, and an expert witness on the stand gaining the trust of the twelve while rambling off his credentials as a lip reader, telling the jury exactly what Detective Cools is saying.

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Chapter Four

C
ools struggles through the rest of his day, stumbling at every step down a steep and rocky hill. The first hurdle presented itself, as he was parting the cluster fuck of a call, when Tabatha Sterns asked for an interview. Not meaning too, he apparently shrugged her off, which she responded to by calling him an asshole. Tabatha Sterns, his favorite news reporter—not to mention the one he’s had a boyhood crush on for years, the one he watches every night—now hating him. Then to the station where Captain Jackson balled him out and informed him that he’ll soon most likely be sued for shooting the hole in the driveway, in addition to emotional distress brought on by an overzealous cop. All of which is followed by an earful from his partner, Michelle. And Joshua goes back to sipping expensive scotch in his khakis. The rest of his afternoon is spent alone in his office, brooding over the morning call and catching up on all things Joshua Siconolfi.

His phone rings. It’s an attractive woman, a persistent sweetness, who seems to have forgotten he’s an asshole. Twenty minutes later she sneaks in the rear entrance of the station. “Thank you for meeting with me on such short notice,” she says, holding out a slender hand. They’ve met a few times through the years, yet he can never get over the fact that she appears thinner in person. Their last meeting took place at the Deistali Restaurant, where after a few drinks, he got the impression she wanted him to give her more than just information on the latest, high-profile arrests.

“Have a seat,” he says, presenting an empty chair. She sits and crosses her long legs, her movement wafting her fragrance through the air. Then playfully cutting to the chase, he asks, “So do you still think I’m an asshole?”

“Yes,” she quickly and matter-of-factly replies. Cools’s eyes tighten, showing rigid lines while processing her sharp, confident answer. Then she cuts to some chases of her own tactically ignoring his frustrated puzzzlement, “Do you have a complete rap sheet on Joshua, and do you think he’s a danger to the community?”

Cools’s thoughts shift to the demented person of interest. “You didn’t get to interview him?” he asks, somewhat surprised.

“No, but he sent me a text. I’m not even sure how he acquired my number.” She slips her phone from her bag, keys in a few buttons, and reads it proficiently. “Today I will retire within the sanctuary of my dwelling, relishing in my endeavors, forcing the media to beg for my story in tomorrows.”

They sit quietly pondering his objective, both coming to the simple conclusion that he plans on giving a statement tomorrow because he considers himself worthy of some sort of celebrity status. Cools breaks the silence, saying, “Well, I can tell you this: this isn’t his first run-in with the law by any means.” Tabatha’s ears perk up. She fumbles out a recorder while he reads from the computer screen. “2001: DUI: dismissed. 2002: DUI: dropped to reckless. 2003: domestic violence, Sherry Hill: dismissed. A few months later another DUI: deferred program, completed. And later that year, another domestic violence again Sherry Hill; this one goes to trial, and he’s found not guilty. Then he snaps, and in mid-2005 he gets a third degree vehicular assault on his battered girlfriend Sherry Hill… His father is William Siconolfi—you might have heard of him?”

“Yes, yes, I have; he’s a high-dollar trial attorney, isn’t he? And didn’t he represent some Catholic priests a few years back?”

“That’s him, and every time his insane son gets into it, Daddy gets him out. So it turns out that he was released on good behavior in February of 2006, doing a grand total of eight months, three in a minimum security, the remaining five in a work-release unit where he worked as an assistant manager at a strip club— Chloe’s Paradise. He gets picked up six weeks later for violation of a no-contact order against, once again, Sherry Hill. This time Daddy gets the charges dropped on a technicality. After that he goes off the Doppler radar for a few years. Then in 2011 our records show he’s married to a Kimberly Sharons; he was arrested for disorderly conduct…served 30 days. And another little misunderstanding when he’s arrested for the first degree arson of St. Luke’s Parish in Aberdeen, Washington, but charges were dropped due to lack of evidence.”

“Arson? So there was enough evidence for an arrest but not enough for a trial?”

“Well…money can make a lot of problems go away in this town. Besides it turned out that the parish was insured for double what the property was worth. And after some further investigation by a private investigator, paid for by William, it was later reported that it was a distinct possibility that the maintenance man could have forgotten a can of gasoline in the basement earlier that day.”

“So was it arson or an accident?”

“Arson…accident…It doesn’t fucking matter. This guy probably could get away with murder.”

Tabatha raises an eyebrow and makes a notation. Then their attention is diverted by some noise coming from a small group of officers who’ve gathered outside Cools’s office window to watch the two of them as they interact, most likely paying more attention to her. Cools throws them a quick a glare before shutting the blinds and denying them anymore fun. Tabatha looks down to her legs and blushes a bit. Cools pretends not to notice and returns to the task at hand, adding, “Now here’s another curious tidbit. Our records show that twice within the past year, 911 calls were made from a woman, claiming to be Kimberly Siconolfi, reporting to have been physically abused by her husband. But no contact with her was ever made, other than the initial calls.”

Tabatha writes on her pad and asks, “Are there going to be any charges filed concerning the events of this morning?”

“No, most likely not. But I’ll tell you this: this freak has jumped a step.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, not only does he escape any real punishment, but each time he advances to the next level of violence against women. Just the fact that he’s fantasizing about it, especially in this much detail, would mean he’s getting closer to actually doing it.”

“So he
is
a danger to Kimberly, in your opinion?”

“Let me show you something.” He navigates his keyboard to revisit an old case; a picture of a young, pretty girl lights the screen. He swivels the monitor, giving Tabatha a better view. “This is Sherry Hill before what he did to her.”

Tabatha sees his facial muscles tense; she then looks jealously to the picture of the teenage girl in her cheerleading uniform; the insignia across the bottom reads, “Senior Year 1984.” She is tiny, looking as if she weighs a hundred pounds, with eyes bright and full of life, and light brown hair partially hanging over her delicate features.

“She’s as cute as a baby kitten.”

Cools waits until Tabatha has taken her in before pressing forward. “And this is what he did to her.” Another quick click of the keyboard, and a horrifying picture of a dead-looking girl appears on the monitor; she is nearly unrecognizable. Her left cheek is busted, exposing bone; one of her eyelids is entirely swollen shut, the other not far behind. Her nose is smashed and discolored, and dried blood cakes her once ivory-white skin. Cut marks, bruising, and broken blood vessels cover most the rest of her body. A couple of close-ups then reveal that two of her finger nails had been completely snapped off and clumps of hair had been ripped out of her scalp, as she fended off her attacker.

“Oh God, she’s a mess. But wasn’t this a car wreck?”

“No!” he yells. Then he opens a drawer, fumbles through a few files, and hands her an unofficial report he’d written years earlier. Tabatha begins to read in silence. Her first impression is that Detective Cools is a gifted writer. As she reads, the story comes alive.

Joshua walks into a dealership and begins the process of a new purchase. Then, when left alone in the salesperson’s office, he sneaks a look at the monthly sales sheet until he finds what he’s looking for—2013 Cadillac Escalade sold to Ronald and Anne Hollister just five days earlier. He shuts the door to the office and makes a call.

It takes seven rings before Anne, because of her age, can check the caller ID (“Jenkins Cadillac”) and answer. “Hello.”

“Hi. Is this Anne Hollister?”

“Yes.”

“Hi, Anne. I’m David Ellis, the shop manager, down here at the dealership. And I’m sorry to inform you that we have to recall your Escalade. I shouldn’t bore you with the details, but there’s a relay switch that needs to be replaced— one that I was supposed to have done before it was sold. So I’m in a bit of a bind here. I’m a married man, Anne, with three kids, and I cannot afford to lose my job. So what I would like to do this afternoon is send a man over to pick it up, and I can have it back to you, fixed, fully gassed, and cleaned inside and out, in under two hours.”

“Well…” She pauses. “Well, I don’t think that would be a problem, David. I wouldn’t want you to get into trouble with your work.”

“Okay, great, Anne. I’ll send my guy over. You’re a real sweetheart.”

Thirty-two minutes later Anne Hollister is handing over the keys to her new Escalade to Joshua, who’s now wearing a mechanics uniform.

Tabatha turns the page, and the story moves forward.

Joshua is in his home. He’s drunk and ranting at little Sherry Hill. Then he begins smacking her around, beating her until she’s unconscious, then dragging her limp body into the garage. He sits her up in the front seat, and soon they are driving down the interstate. He reaches over and turns off the airbag for the passenger side and starts speeding recklessly through the night’s traffic. He veers over the white line and onto the drunk bumps. He looks at her. She doesn’t wake, even as the truck continues to speed faster and faster. Then he moves his gaze back through the windshield, still steering off the road. Up ahead there’s an underpass embankment. He aims the vehicle and closes his eyes. They crash into it at full speed. The Escalade flips, end over end, crashing upside down. There’s nothing left but twisted metal, broken glass, and smoke.

Tabatha’s mouth falls open as she turns the page.

Now Joshua is in the ER, being treated for some light abrasions and a dislocated shoulder, while Sherry is in an adjacent room on the operating table, looking like Hannibal Lecter was playing with her.

When Cools sees that Tabatha has finished his report, he adds, “But Daddy convinced the prosecutor otherwise, and Joshua was allowed to plea to the lesser crime of vehicular assault due to negligent driving.”

“And what about stealing the car?”

“It’s not a theft when the owner hands you the keys.”

Tabatha gasps, springs from her seat, and stands facing the wall for a moment. Cools lets it sink in. She stiffens visibly in anger. “You fucking asshole; why did I never hear of this before?”

Her reaction catches Cools off guard. But the detective quickly realizes her logic. The story, for her, always comes first. He raises his hands in defense. “You know we cannot let information like that leak. We couldn’t prove it, and no one wants to look incompetent in the face of the public.”

“You let him off because you didn’t want to look bad?” she wails.

“Remember, William was representing him; we had to make certain concessions.”

“Concessions? Concessions!”

“Look, Tabatha,” he says, holding out his hands, gesturing for a truce, “it makes no sense to try a man for something we cannot prove.” Tabatha doesn’t reply. “We have a responsibility not to supply ideas to the public; they’re much better served believing that forensics, that CSI will uncover any crime.”

Then silence. They both linger for a minute, cooling down. “Okay, I see your point,” she says, retaking her chair, switching gears. Between a few smiles and soft eyes, she apologizes for her outburst. They talk for a while until their emotions subside and a bit of playful flirting finds its way back into their little chat. Wanting more, she invites him to her apartment for some late-night conversation and a few drinks. He responds to her advances in a way Tabatha has only experienced a few times in her life: he refuses the offer. Disappointed she leaves as sassy as she came, thinking that whoever the woman is in his life, he must really love her.

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Chapter Five

A
t 9:58 p.m., at The Shelter, a dark, quiet bar in Pioneer square, one of the oldest parts of the city, Cools sits in a round booth all to himself. It’s a place where nobody asks any questions. An ashtray and a bottle of Jameson are resting in front of him—the usual routine. Already feeling the alcohol he replays in his mind the interview with Tabatha, mostly thinking about what information he’d given her and how she might weave it into a lead story, mixed among a few innocent thoughts of ravishing her on his desk. A slight wave of guilt enters his mind, as he admires the treasured details of the barroom. Everything is either dark brown or black. The walls are covered in wood veneer that reflects only dim light coming from behind the bar. And the steady rhythmic shadows from the ceiling fan mounted high above provide tranquility—the ideal place to meditate. There, in deep thought, he stares into the bottle, watching the liquid roll round and round. It comforts him more than the thick leather cushions of the booth—his booth. He’s actually never seen anyone else in it—his private harbor from the rest of the world. Even the sounds in the bar are kept low to his liking; no music plays; only muffled conversation makes its way back to where he is perched alone, judging humanity.